


The Most Arrogant Art

by SimplyScarfy



Category: Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drug Use, Inspired by Music, M/M, Musicians
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-08 18:42:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplyScarfy/pseuds/SimplyScarfy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has just arrived at Apollo Academy, where he can finally explore his musical talent, and escape the horrors of home life. There he meets an abrasive, socially inept but incredibly talented violinist. Who, despite his acerbic remarks and endless criticism of not only John's music, but him as a person, manages to make the guitarist want for things strictly forbidden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first go at this website ... forgive mistakes, they're all mine, unbetaed.

Sherlock noted with distaste the amount of people who had gathered in the Main Room. There was someone in there whom all of his fellow musicians were whooping and goading. People in the doorway held incredulous stares directed inwards. He heard, above the noise the insufferable people were making, the low harsh thumping on an acoustic instrument. Sherlock sighed, barely hiding his disdain. Guitar. He moved closer to the doorway, easily overlooking the other people to a boy about his age who was cradling a cheap battered Spanish guitar and thrumming his fingers harshly over the body whilst his fingers held hovered over the twelfth fret. And then after one particularly loud thump that made Sherlock wince his fingers began flying over the fret board producing note after note in a flowing rhythm.

People began whooping again and the boy, whose eyes were closed, smiled and began to build to a climax. As the notes were produced faster and faster, onlooker's eyes widened and a fast clapping beat began. Soon it ended on a simple major chord. Sherlock rolled his eyes as everyone applauded. The guitar was a plebeian instrument, with no finesse as far as Sherlock was concerned. But the boy who had been mastering it stood up and took a small bow, a modest flush heavy on his cheeks. Sherlock was about to turn and leave when the boy's eyes found his. An uncomfortable pressure entered his stomach.

They were startlingly blue and fairly big. They looked kind. Sherlock scoffed, rolled his eyes and turn to stalk away, hoping to get rid of this odd feeling through his own instrument; the beautiful violin. He went to his favourite practice room and took out his resin.

-o-

John finished with a grin, his hands holding that all familiar ache but feeling satisfied and happy. Knowing that he would offend if he didn't, he made a short, stilted bow. People patted him on the back and he felt a bright rush of blood come and fill his neck, tops of his ears and his cheeks. He looked up to find the exit, now incredibly desperate to leave the claustrophobic room and found a boy standing there and scowling at him. The other boy was wearing a trench coat of all things and his high cheekbones and pale eyes made John think of royalty. Suddenly the other boy rolled his eyes and stalked away. John tried not to feel upset at the obvious distaste of his music, but his ever perceptive friend Greg noticed and whispered in his ear

"Don't let him upset you. That's Holmes, one of, if not the, best violinists under twenty in the world. Unfortunately he knows it. Arrogant sod," Greg chuckled and John joined in briefly. Greg was the person who had convinced his parents that this school would be good enough for John. John was grateful, because he was all to aware of how much the other boy hated his parents.

"I'm just going to go and put Mary away," 'Mary' was his guitar. While it was cheap it was his rock, and he would love it endlessly. It had prevented John from going insane and inflicting pain on not only his family but himself and had provided an escape from the horrors at home. The other boy smiled easily and nodded.

"Meet you in the canteen,"

Thankfully, the other teenagers allowed him to leave, a few people giving him claps on the shoulder and he tried not to wince as they unknowingly touched his scar. When he got out, he saw that boy, Holmes, entering the last room in the corridor. It was the smallest practice room, and apparently haunted, Greg had told him when touring him around.

-o-

Even though he knew it was likely to piss the other boy off, John followed him. He was just outside the room when he heard a few notes of the violin being played, tuning up most likely, before an abrupt break out into something dark and rich. The flowing melody was stunning in its sincerity and moving in its simplicity; and oddly made John feel as if pieces that had been falling apart somewhere deep inside were seamlessly coming together to form a thick lump in his throat.

This was why he loved music - it could make you lose yourself so entirely you forgot how to handle yourself. It caressed you into submitting to it's elusive and manipulative ways.

Suddenly, there was a screech and the door he had found himself leaning on opened, exposing the scowly boy Holmes from earlier.

"What are you doing here?" He sneered at John. The shorter boy was used to rudeness such as this, he had a rather hormonal and slightly crazy older sister, after all.

"I was just, um-" John said cluelessly, struggling to recover.

"I was just, um – why don't you 'just, um' somewhere else, hm? I'm trying to compose!" The taller boy snapped viciously.

Again, John was unmoved by this display of hostility, and decided to hang on the fact that that incredibly piece had been written by the boy in front of him. He gaped.

"You mean, you wrote that? That's... well that's incredible!" John exclaimed. The boy in front of him was momentarily frozen in surprise. John took advantage of that and entered the room. He looked around, noting the violin case on a grand piano. A music stand was erect, with sheets of paper haphazardly placed on. Pencils were scattered on the floor.

"What do you mean?" The tall boy asked, his eyes narrowed as he saw John place himself on the piano stall comfortably.

"Well, to be frank, it was fucking incredible! Shit, it sounded like something – I dunno, professional? Old, classical?"

Holmes rolled his eyes at the use of terminology, but didn't remark on it, instead: "That's odd. Other students don't like my compositions."

"What?! Why not?"

"Sounds like 'murder music' apparently," Holmes' murmured.

John smiled, "It's certainly dark, but I think it's beautiful."

Holmes allowed a mere twitch of his lips, "Well,"

Apparently he didn't want to say any more, so John gestured for him to play.

"No, I won't. This is something for the spring festival. I want it to be fresh,"

"Wait, you don't allow other people to hear you as you write?"

"Of course not, the mentors trust that I will be superb, as I always am, so there's simply no need to review it endlessly. It's a waste of time, and causes me to doubt myself," the other boy said in a no-nonsense manner. He frowned momentarily, "I hate doubting myself,".

"But ... but-" John was apparently as a loss for words. He was constantly badgering family and friends, anyone really to review and see what worked and what didn't. He was constantly under assessment and adapted pieces to suit the taste of his critic.

"I see you are the opposite, then," the curly haired boy sounded rather disappointed. John felt rather guilty for some strange, bizarre reason.

"I, well... I guess. It's good to have feedback." John said defensively.

"I prefer it when I've performed the completed piece, then you know that it's entirely your own."

"Well, are you going to have to change it, now that I've given you my input?"

"Of course, it's not going to be 'Composed by Sherlock Holmes' anymore. It'll forever more be 'Composed by Sherlock Holmes with the input of John Watson'" The tall boy, Sherlock, replied.

"How do you know my name?"

Sherlock gave him a look that very clearly said 'you're an idiot', but rather than say anything, gestured to John's guitar bag. With embarrassment, John saw it had his name written, rather largely on it in white permanent marker.

"Oh."


	2. Roommates

They left the practice room a little while after, Sherlock had managed to pack his stuff up remarkably quickly.

"So, it is your first day at the academy?" Sherlock asked John as they walked quickly towards the lunch hall together. It seemed as if it pained Sherlock to ask the question, John noted curiously.

"Yeah. That obvious?" John asked, running the back of his neck with his calloused palm in a nervous gesture.

Sherlock glanced at him quickly, "The fact that you haven't been warned off Donovan says a lot, certainly."

John paused in his smiling at the girl Sherlock had gestured at, momentarily stunned. She was pretty, curvy and an obvious choice certainly, but not John's type. "Her? What's wrong with her?" They turned a corner. John was already lost. Sherlock didn't seem inclined to explain the route they were taking.

"Nothing wrong exactly, well that rather depends on your societal outlook. She is just rather promiscuous, and proud of it. She has been called a 'slut' on many occasions. New people are very quickly warned off her," Sherlock described it, incredibly unbiased given the glare he had directed towards the girl.

"Why do you dislike her? Because people think she's a slut?"

"She insults me daily. I do not have any opinion on other people's sexual relations, it is none of my business," Sherlock replied smoothly, finally entering the lunch hall and sitting down quickly at an isolated table in the corner. The room was littered with people, and John immediately noted the exits, and the entrance most commonly used. After a little while of searching, John saw Greg across the room. However, the other boy seemed to be having all his attention being held by a pretty blond girl.

John hesitated.

"By all means, go and be with your acquaintance. I am used to eating alone," Although the words had been said in a matter of fact, slightly monotone voice, the actual content made John immediately feel the pressure of guilt. It seemed as if no-one liked Sherlock. It was clear that Sherlock was used ot this fact, but his voice gave nothing else away.

"No, it looks like Greg is busy. I'll stay with you," John replied simply, taking a seat and pulling an apple out of his bag. After a few moments, and many bites, John noticed Sherlock hadn't started eating food. "You got anything to eat?"

Sherlock face contorted into a grimace "I don't eat when composing,"

John rolled his eyes, "Don't be so stupid. Here, have an apple." John placed a golden delicious in front of the taller boy.

Sherlock scoffed.

John glared.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John raised his eyebrows.

Sherlock looked away.

Sherlock picked up the apple and began taking tiny bites.

-O-

After going their separate ways after lunch, John found himself reacquainted with Greg, who popped up at his side, along with pretty blonde girl.

"I saw you, with Sherlock. What's going through your head Johnny boy?" Greg asked playfully, ruffling John's hair. John pushed him away, laughing slightly uneasily, not that Greg noticed.

"Sod off Greg," John replied, "No, I just feel a bit sorry for him is all. I mean, why does everyone avoid him so much? Because he's talented?"

Greg looked contemplative, "I've never had a problem with him. He always helps me improve my technique so I quite like him, when he's being tactful. I guess it's because he says what he means, and yeah, he's incredibly talented. And we both know how competitive music is. Uhrm, mostly it's because he knows a lot about people, just from their music style, he can pretty intimidating," Greg's stilted speech had John wondering, so when the other boy left him to walk pretty blonde girl to her class, John barely noticed.

-O-

After dinner (where John saw no sign of Sherlock) Greg had to take him to his dorm. Unfortunately, as Greg had enrolled a lot earlier than John, he already had his partner, so the guitarist had to take the only room free.

"Well, you're going to be glad to have made friends with him," Greg chuckled.

"I'm going to be rooming with Sherlock?" John asked, face falling and lifting simultaneously – but the overall feeling was excited.

"Don't sound happy! My mate Anderson had him for a term last year, apparently he's a nightmare," Greg stopped talking and looked at John with a smile, "Though, for some reason I have the feeling that you're not going to mind it,"

John blushed profusely and looked away. They walked in awkward silence until they reached room 221. Someone had added a hastily drawn B at the end. When John looked questioningly towards Greg, the other boy shrugged.

John entered after knocking at least three times and hearing no reply. Sherlock was in there lying on his bed, still dressed in his trenchcoat, listening to music. Pale eyes opened, sensing the intrusion, and immediately John was ushered back into the corridor before he even knew what was going on.

"Um, Sherlock?"

"What?"

"That's my room as well now,"

Sherlock looked pleadingly at Greg, "There's nowhere else?" John felt a stab of hurt in his gut.

Greg shook his head, "No mate. Mrs Hudson assigned him here, and told me to tell you to 'get over yourself and see that this might help'. No clue what she means there though,"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Wouldn't expect you to," Sherlock sighed and looked down at John. Sighing again, he stepped aside and allowed the guitarist to enter, finally.

Now that he could get a good look at the room, he saw it was incredibly neat. Everything that was, apart from Sherlock's desk. It was hideously messy. But before John could register more Sherlock pulled a blanket over it.

The taller boy gestured to John's 'side'. It was immaculate.

"That is your side. Don't touch my stuff." Sherlock said briskly. John looked positively overwhelmed. Greg cleared his throat. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Again. "Please." he barked. John nodded and set his small gym bag down at the foot of his bed, put his guitar against his bedside table and went over to Greg.

"See you later mate," the guitarist said. The other boy nodded, looking sorry.

John turned back, and saw that Sherlock was stretched out over his bed, headphones in place, looking as if he had never been disturbed. The lamp on his bedside table cast a soft warm glow over the violinist, his cheekbones and fairly deep set eyes casting shadows over the rest of his face. Dark, unruly curls splayed over his forehead and John felt his breath hitch in his chest. He looked truly-

Filthy FAGGOTS OUT OF MY HOUSE!

John silenced his father's voice in his head. This was his place, his secret place away from them, from that. He took a deep breath, set his alarm on his phone, and got into bed. He could do this. He had to.

A/N – short I know but, review?


	3. Letter

I see problems down the line,  
I know they're not mine.  
Don't wash the dirt off of your hands.  
You're doing the same mistake twice.  
Making the same mistake twice.  
Come on over,  
don't be so caught up.  
It's not about compromising.

Jose Gonzalez -Down the Line (definitely not mine)

 

CHAPTER THREE

It's been a week since John arrived at Apollo Academy

Dear Dicksplash!

It's Harry. John. I miss you. I mean, yeah. Fuck it, I really fucking miss you. Since you left things have been rough. I'm not at home any more, but don't worry, I've kept my promise. I'm still studying really hard and maintaining my grades. Please, don't freak out. I'm safe, I promise.

People at school have been wondering where you are, asking me lots. Mainly why I'm not there with you. But I'm the Talentless Twin remember? Haha

How is it there? Everything nice, you settling down okay? How's lessons and all that shit? The brochures looked amazing John, you're so lucky.

Uhrm yeah. Reply to Clara's address, she'll probably give it to me. My laptop broke – old fashioned way for us now ;)

LOVE,

H x

p.s – phone's broke as well :/

John's eyes were wet. Really wet. He knew Sherlock had entered, but he was too transfixed by the piece of paper in front of him to care. His stupid, stupid sister. What had she done? John was done, he was done with this stupid school with their stupid pompous pricks and their room mates who ignored you after spending a pleasant day together and their hatred of people who didn't play orchestral instruments and their only accepting people who played instruments because his sister, his ,was out there doing god knows what and John is stuck here and he can't look after her and what had happened to her laptop why was Clara only probably going to give his letter to-

"You're hyperventilating," The violinist commented from across the room. "Letter from the sister?"

John finally managed to shake it off momentarily, drawing in deep shuddering breaths and trying to get rid of that numb feeling from his head and limbs.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Just, please, shut the fuck up for a minute,"

"Okay John." Sherlock got up, collected his violin case and left the room quickly, looking highly uncomfortable.

After minutes of complete shock, John fished out his phone. It suddenly made sense why he hadn't had any replies from his twin. John quickly fished out one of his books and a biro, and hastily scrawling out a

Harry!

He shook his head and realised that his hands were trembling. He was crying properly now, a feeling of complete helplessness taking over him. Not his Harry, not his sister, his baby twin by two minutes. He'd known this had been a bad idea-

Suddenly the door burst open, and Greg was there, looking confused; he held a packet of pocket tissues, a MP3 with a post-it note attached, an envelope and a pack of stamps and an apple. A golden delicious, to be exact. Greg's face instantly morphed into shock when he saw John's dripping face.

"John, mate are you okay?" The dry faced boy say down next to his friend, rubbing his back awkwardly. "Sherlock sent me, weirdo just said that I was better to deal with emotions. Practically dragged me in here after handing me all this shite,"

Wordlessly, John handed the letter to Greg, watching the carper with unseeing eyes. He didn't hear the other boy swear, or feel as he removed John's shoes. He didn't notice him removing all the various clutter from the guitarists bed, or lie him down and place earbuds in his ears. He vaguely registered Greg muttering about Sherlock and his twattish demands and why this fucking artist of all people? Fuck it, it's Sherlock.

Then, soothing words and beautiful guitar music trinkled into his ears and he fell into an exhausted sleep, nodding slightly when Greg promised that he'd fix it.

–

When John had woken up the next morning, he had been confronted with the sight of a meditating Sherlock Holmes. He had been incredibly shocked to say the least. Sherlock ceased in whatever it was he was doing and looked at John.

"I'm cleaning the desk later. You probably won't want to be there when I do."

"Thanks," John croaked.

Sherlock blinked, "I did nothing,"

"You did enough," John replied quietly, solemnly. Sherlock's lips twitched.

"Gregory Lestrade has invited you to play football with him on the field at noon."

"He's a good mate."

"John, you've been rather annoyed with me of late due to my lack of communication with you,"

"Yeah. Yeah, I have,"

"I apologise. But it's going to happen again."

"That's fine, just next time, don't ignore me when I'm really fucking lost and twenty minutes late for lesson."

Twitchy lips. "I'll try,"

John had been prone to panic attacks or bouts of severe anxiety when he was stressed, Sherlock had observed over the week he had been in relative close proximity. When these episodes had occurred, John had listened to the same mediocre musician's songs on repeat and took a nap.

John was a twin, left handed and bisexual, Sherlock had observed.

John's twin was reckless, irresponsible, completely loyal to John and yet ignoring him.

John preferred biro's to ink pens – being left handed meant that he tended to smudge things. A lot.

John was there on a trial scholarship, and unless he managed to reach a very specific target, he would be asked to leave the academy, unless he could pay for it.

John hated oranges, but liked satsumas.

John's father was religious.

John hated all orange juice, and loved apple juice.

John's mother was absent. Possibly dead.

John had once fallen off a swing when he was very young and grazed his entire back.

John hated sitting with his back to an entrance.

John didn't drink enough water.

John ate too many sweets.

John got stressed easily, but coped with it incredibly well.

John's father scared John.

John didn't know if music was what he really wanted to do.

John was getting increasingly frustrated with Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't like eating.

Sherlock didn't like juice.

Sherlock bought cheap resin.

Sherlock had an annoying number of books.

Sherlock didn't even know what was going on with his desk, only that he didn't want to deal with it.

Sherlock liked oatcakes.

Sherlock's phone screen was broken badly in two different places.

Sherlock had a onesie.

Sherlock had never worn his onesie in front of John.

Sherlock avoided John like the plague.

Sherlock didn't know if music was what he really wanted to do.

Sherlock was getting increasingly fascinated with John.


	4. Apples

Sunday Noon, day after John receiving Harry's letter.

John felt a miniscule weight lift off his chest as he posted his letter to Clara for Harry. At least now he could concentrate the tiniest bit better now. Sherlock had tidied up his desk (the desk which John found was actually huge and supposed to be shared between the two of them) the night John had had his break down (which he was rather embarrassed about), and so John had spent two hours writing a lengthy letter to Harry and one to Clara as well, knowing that Harry wouldn't tell the poor girl everything.

He was about to get dressed for lunch, when Sherlock stormed in, his coat flowing around him making him look like some sort of super hero. He placed his violin down on his bed but slammed his briefcase full of notes down on the floor and slumped into his bed.

"Bad practice?" John queried.

"It was fine. I just hate this stupid, stupid instructor. She – she really just-" Sherlock shook his head, glaring mutinously at the ceiling. John didn't have any lessons with Sherlock, as the boy had a different instrument and took advanced lessons of all the other lessons – so John rarely saw him.

"Pushes your buttons?" John asked, amused. Sherlock glared at him. "Go on, who do you have?"

"Miss Adler. I swear the woman wants to make me –"

"Oh my god you're lucky! She's ridiculously hot." John sighed. He had seen the woman in the hallways and monitoring at lunch. She always wore tight fitting pencil shirts that barely seemed to stretch over her plump arse and blouses that if she just bent down a tiny bit … John shook his head. He looked over at Sherlock and saw him clenching his jaw and rolling his eyes.

"Regardless of her physical appearance, despite being an – and I do not admit this happily – exceptional violinist she is also incredibly … annoying!" Sherlock spat, disgusted.

"What has she done?"

"Set me a piece with a section missing, saying that I should know how to fill it in, she's saying I have to perform it to the class by Friday. I've scoured John, every place I could find and I could not find this piece! How am I supposed to perform something with a chunk missing?"

"Well is the rest of piece hard?"

"It's … appropriately challenging. Yes,"

"Why don't you just learn that bit and come to the missing chunk after you know that part?"

Sherlock looked at him, as if talking to John was eroding his brain but it was necessary to save the human race. "John. I got the piece two days ago. I already know the rest of the piece,"

"What, note perfect?" John asked, incredulous.

Sherlock just sighed.

"Okay, I see. Well, does it not sound like a composer you've already performed before?"

"No, it's irritatingly unique." Sherlock sat up. "John. John! You are finally showing signs of being intellectually able beyond average level!"

"I … I am?"

"She means for me to compose something, she's written it! She wants me to compose the chunk in the middle, and for it fit seamlessly into the piece!"

"Why couldn't she just have told you that?"

Sherlock looked over the sheet music again, his face morphing into a manic grin suddenly. "Oh, she's clever, she's so clever!"

"I'm confused. How is she so clever?"

"Isn't it obvious? The section she wants is from one of my own already devised pieces! Oh, she is brilliant!"

"And how the fuck do you know that?"

"Because of the scales John, the scales and the abrupt change of tempo! Oh, it was a summer piece wasn't it, she loves my summer pieces - hmm where did I put it? Oh!" With one last exclamation, Sherlock was gone. After approximately three seconds, he stormed back in, grabbed his violin, winked to John, and left again. John shrugged and decided a shop to the supermarket on campus was in order. He was running out of Golden Delicious'.

John was disappointed, there hadn't been any of his favourites, so he was reduced to getting second best - Gala apples. But, they were better than nothing. In the dorms, you had a fridge to share. The fridge in their room had been completely empty, so John had purchased some oatcakes to put there, and some apples. Sherlock liked Granny Smiths.

He picked up Mary and decided that he was going to head to a practice room and try to get some composing in. He picked up his key card on his way out and walked along the corridor to leave the living block.

Apollo Academy was an odd mixture of modern and old; and that included the students and teachers. It was not unusual to find yourself in a room with a seven and thirty seven year old, being taught by someone who was eighteen. John liked the mishmash of ages and buildings, there was something for everyone here. Not to mention the place was large, nestled in the country side amongst hills it had its own train station and shopping market, library – all contained in one area. John was in love with the place. He never wanted to leave. As he walked across a court yard with dozens of rosebushes he was confronted with a boy in his Music Reading class.

He was the same age as John, and not as intimidatingly rich as a lot of the other people attending the Academy. He was taller (although that wasn't hard), with short hair a colour that was caught between a nutty red and rich chocolate. His eyes were large and brown – and his face was dusted with a smattering of freckles. His name was Lewis Cook, but everyone called him Cook. His quick wit and infectious smile made him popular but his less that wealthy background kept him modest. He grandmother had been teaching him piano ever since he could remember, but had done so without music. He was deemed incredible by the teachers.

"John!"

"Hey, Cook. What have you been up to?"

"Just had an intense lesson with Adler, damn that woman is fine," Cook grinned. "How 'bout you?"

"Lucky! I'm just going to do a bit of practice, hopefully do some writing," John shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Cool, I think if I try to compose anymore this week I'll slam my head in the piano," they laughed. "You going to this party tonight then?"

"I haven't been told about it," John admitted ruefully. He had heard rumours, but assumed as a newbie he wouldn't be welcome.

"Oh, you should come! It's completely open, for the T crowd obviously," the 'T' crowd being 15-21 "Apparently they're playing Drum and Bass, so it should be sick. Molly and her friend Anthea are hosting. Anthea's 20 and so, so fine,"

"And anyone can come?"

"Sure,"

"Even Sherlock?" John asked, an idea forming.

Cook smirked, "Definitely."

"Sherlock?" John asked the room, entering quickly and hauling his guitar in behind him. His fingers ached and throbbed but he had got a good page and a half done.

"Mmm?" Sherlock was typing something at the desk on his laptop, his hands a blur of motion, creating a thrum of background noise. There was a half-eaten Granny Smith beside him, browning steadily.

"What you doing tonight?"

"Playing," Sherlock answered briskly, still tapping away.

"Fancy going to a party?"

All movement stilled, John tilted his head to the side. Sherlock remained looking forward, his face passive.

"Party?" Sherlock asked carefully after a moment, resuming his typing, albeit at a much slower pace.

"Yeah, drum and bass music. Molly and Anthea hosting," John replied, coming closer to the desk and eventually leaning against it beside Sherlock and the brown apple.

Sherlock's nose wrinkled when he heard the hostesses. "Why are you inviting me? Surely you realise by now I'm a pariah,"

"It will be fun! I don't hate you, we can go for like an hour or so and then come home, promise," John replied, his voice taking on a tinge of a whine. He absently wondered when he had thought of their room as being 'home'.

Sherlock stopped typing and faced John, an eyebrow raised. John lifted both of his expectantly and allowed the other boy's eyes to scan over him. John had been acquainted with Sherlock's 'deducing' the lunchtime they'd spent together on his first day. After a minute of scrutiny, Sherlock returned to the screen, his long fingers tapping away once again.

"Only if you promise to keep the fridge stocked with these," Sherlock gestured to the apple without looking away from his laptop. He blinked and looked back at it. He took a quick bite and carried on typing.

John's fist punched the air in victory.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.


	5. Party

I can't hear your voice, do I have a choice?  
I'm hoping with chance, you might take this dance  
I can't hear your voice, do I have a choice?

You're my number one guy

Hot Chip- Ready for the Floor

A/N – NONE of the songs mentioned in this chapter are mine. 

WARNING – JOHN SWEARS SO MUCH IN THIS CHAPTER

John sighed as he finished buttoning up his shirt. Sherlock was still in the bathroom getting ready. Considering the other boy had called it 'irritatingly common' – he was still obviously excited for the party. John glanced in the mirror yet again. He was wearing a simple cornflower blue shirt, hoping it would 'bring out his eyes' or some other bullshit. His jeans were black and fitting to his legs tightly. He completed the outfit with some black converses. It was plain, but he thought it was better to underdress than overdress. He was just fiddling with his hair for the millionth time that night when Sherlock exited from the bathroom. John immediately felt his mouth go dry.

He was wearing an emerald green shirt that was rolled up to the elbow, which made his eyes pop (John had thought they were blue but now they seemed to be the clearest green) and black skinny jeans also, that seemed to fit like a second skin, hugging his arse. His feet were covered with artfully worn ankle boots. The think that made John feel like he was in a daydream, was array of bracelets on Sherlock's right hand. It was small and some people might think silly, but it was so completely out of character, John felt like laughing.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, after turning around slowly, looking down at John.

"Okay?"

John grinned, "Brilliant."

When they got there, they had already agreed to not drink, Sherlock saying he hated it and John because didn't want to get drunk at a party where he was already going to be feeling out of place. Throughout the walk to the girl's dorms (which was conveniently placed at the other end of the block to their own) John couldn't help sneak glances over at Sherlock, noting the way the boy seemed to be a blank slate in terms of expression. John was sure it was nerves.

Because Anthea and Molly were somewhat older, their dorm had more of a flat layout – John was jealous. It was fairly spacious and absolutely full of people. It even had a small garden that looked over some hills.

The song that was pounded his eardrums was one that he'd heard in the charts a year or so back, within minutes of them getting there, they were confronted with stares, mostly aimed at Sherlock. John assumed it was his first time in attending one of the social events. As they made their way to the kitchen (something John did every time he went to a party as a sort of ritual) Cook managed to find them.

"John! How are you doing mate? Here have a drink!" Before John could refuse, a cup was thrust into his hand. His protests were drowned out at Cook gestured for him to try it. John tried a sip slowly. It was good, really good actually. Proper alcohol, rum he thought, not the nail varnish stuff he and his friends used to get. It was combined with a sweet fizzy drink that made John's teeth want to ache "Like it?" John nodded, "It's Cook's Special. Anyway, turns out they're dabbling in all sorts of genres tonight. DnB and grime though, so it's all good!" Cook said. John looked behind him and dragged Sherlock to stand beside him. The violinist was looking around with blatant disgust at the drunk people who were clearly pretending they were a lot more inebriated than they actually were and unfortunately his expression didn't change when Cook held out his hand. It was only after an elbow to the stomach that Sherlock managed a grimace and a hand shake.

"Sherlock! You came, great to see you man! How are you finding it?"

"Repugnant,"

Cook clearly didn't understand what the word meant but gave a weak grin instead, looking slightly confused.

After a few pleasantries Cook excused himself and John faced Sherlock brightly. The other boy still looked entirely uncomfortable, surrounded by writhing girls as they were pushed into 'dance room'.

Cries of "oh my god I love this song" were heard and John leaned up to talk into Sherlock's ear.

"Garden?"

Sherlock gave a quick, brisk nod and followed John to the cool space, there seemed to be less people there.

They'd finally found a place to perch and after the intensity of the inside, relax.

John had decided that he would finish the drink Cook gave him, it didn't seem too alcoholic, and it would help with how tense he felt.

"Want to try some?" John offered his glass out to his friend.

Sherlock's nose wrinkled and he said, "No. Looks disgusting."

John laughed easily, "Suit yourself. I'll go back and get you a can of coke or something if you want?"

"Yes."

Clearly the other boy wanted to leave, "Just an hour Sherlock okay?"

Sherlock looked away from the boy who he'd been scowling at as a result of their staring. "If you insist."

"I do," John said firmly. "We need to get rid of that 'pariah' title,"

The corners of Sherlock's lips twitched and John counted it as a small victory. John excused himself and went back inside. He downed his drink and poured himself another. He'd found a bottle in one of the cupboards and after checking no one was watching, poured a decent splash into his cup, and then after a second of thought Sherlock's too. And then a little bit more; the violinist could use it John thought. He quickly replaced the bottle of vodka, hoping the owner would be too smashed to notice. After pouring both drinks a girl latched onto his arm and invited him to dance. After stashing his drinks in the microwave, he went and followed her – hoping Sherlock would be fine. This girl had the most perfect pair of tits he'd ever seen in his life.

He recognised the song playing – Nicky Romero's Toulouse. He and his best friend Mike had been obsessed with it last summer, and it immediately made him think of the boy. He should really give him a call. Oh, if only the other boy could see the girl that was leading John through masses of people – he would've been able to brag for weeks. The drink Cook had given him was already making him feel light-headed in the best of ways. There must've been more alcohol in it than he'd thought.

The girl in front of him had huge brown eyes and dark brown hair and was definitely interested in John. Her face was covered in a smattering of freckles and lots of mascara made her eyelashes appear huge in length. He laughed and began jumping as the song picked up, losing himself in the pound of the beat and the gorgeous girl in front of him. As the song reached its peak the girl put her arms around his neck and as the song dropped into a filthy yet glorious structured mess John put his arms around her waist and watched as she threw her head back, body bouncing against his in time to the beat.

When the song came to the inevitable yet abrupt end, the girl leaned forward. "How old are you?" She asked, she clearly wasn't drunk enough to forgo checking.

"Sixteen," John replied. The girl laughed, but not in a way that made John feel like a prick.

"Still too young I'm afraid," She said regretfully. "Thanks for the dance," after a peck on the cheek, she merged back into the writhing mass.

John was too pleased (and drunk) to be pissed off so instead he stood back for a bit as he observed the dance floor and hummed to the new song that was playing.

If you can find the time, To give your love to me, I will wait for you, If that's all you need (Time, Time ) If you can find the time (Time, Time) If ever you're free, Just drop me a line, And tell me where you'll be, I'll be right here, If you can find the time, Just be sincere, If you can find the time, I'll wait for you, But if you can't find the time (Time, Time, Time) Then cut me loose.

The lyrics suddenly reminded John.

Sherlock.

He ran through the kitchen, quickly recovering his drinks from the microwave where they had remained thankfully undisturbed. When he finally reached he garden (after having to interrupt a couple snogging rather enthusiastically and then awkwardly stepping right between them) his heart stopped at the sight. Sally was there, hissing drunkenly at Sherlock, performing to a crowd of people too drunk or too fucking rude to stop her. Sherlock just looked at her, jaw clenched tight and waited for her to finish slurring. John pushed through the crowd in time to hear her last insult.

"-here, all dressed up? You're an ugly prick Holmes, who were you hoping to impress you stupid fucking social retard?" Sherlock looked away, a flush rising from his neck to rest on his high cheekbones. His beautiful cheekbones, thank you very much. John's blood boiled as people gasped and boy's obnoxiously yelled "Oooooooohhhh!"

So the guitarist elbowed his way to stand before the girl, his eyes narrowing as she laughed with her stupid, simpering friends.

"What, the fuck, is your problem, you stupid bitch?" John said so calmly the boys immediately stopped their calling and the girl's eyebrows simultaneously raised.

"Why, nothing with you handsome," Sally replied, raising a hand to trail down John's chest. He pushed her away, sickened.

"Look at yourself, you disgusting cheap bitch. Putting down others so people stop looking at your fuck ugly face? What are you trying to hide beneath all that cheap make-up?" John leaned in to Sally a bit, "Signs that you have herpes?" John took a blatant step back in disgust. "Fuck off you stupid whore," John rolled his eyes at her gobsmacked expression, and turned to face Sherlock who was beaming discretely. He handed his friend his drink.

"Want to go inside, have a dance?"

"I'd love to," Sherlock replied.

Walking away from the furious spluttering and the renewed "Nooooooo! Are you gonna take that?", Sherlock and John went into the kitchen.

"I say we see who can drink these quicker, have a few crisps, then have a dance?" John proposed.

"I know you put alcohol in mine," Sherlock admitted, quirking an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a cheeky grin.

"Do you mind?"

"Not at all,"

After being counted down by some random bloke who look about twenty, it was revealed John in fact could chug down his drink more quickly. Sherlock just rolled his eyes as John accepted numerous high fives from surrounding people. The guitarist knew he was quite drunk now and after sharing a packet of crisps with his flatmate he decided that the drink must've hit him too. It had worked quickly.

They manoeuvred themselves to the dance room and waiting as there was a pause in the music. Suddenly, a woman's voice permeated the air. John instantly recognised the song, and began singing himself.

I've lost count of the ways I've tried to shut this down  
But the flame never goes out  
All the dangers I've faced I've taken on my own  
I've never had reason to doubt.  
But you, you've opened through  
I've got no defence as you take me over the edge

Sherlock grinned happily as John's excitement grew towards the end of the verse. As the song descended into brilliance John jumped around stupidly, and after a moment the violinist joined in. As they danced carelessly, John noticed the way Sherlock's curls had dampened with sweat, and stuck slightly around his ears.

John noticed that he had successfully replaced the flush of embarrassment with one of happiness and alcohol.

He noticed that two of Sherlock's top buttons were undone.

I don't want to lose control, but the minute I feel you next to me, your fire takes hold

He noticed that Sherlock's arms were subtly let powerfully muscled as they waved above his head in sheer abandonment of self-consciousness.

Falling like a burning stone, but it feels like you're my gravity

John noticed Sherlock's eyes fly open and capture his, the green in them suddenly electric and enthralling.

I'm gonna let myself go

John took a step closer to Sherlock, and the violinist cocked his eyes to the side, questioning. That smooth column of neck was just before John, and he was surrounded by the smell of Sherlock's fancy body wash that John had stolen some of that very night.

There was a sudden swell of bodies invading the room, no doubt due to the building climax of the song. This pushed John closer to Sherlock; so close that he could feel muscle pressed up against him. So close that he could feel Sherlock's heaving chest push against his own. So close that all he had to do was tilt his head up and push and his chapped lips would be perfectly pressed against the plump ones before him.

With a deep breath, John's eyes fell closed to the sight of the widened green orbs of his roommate and his neck tilted.

Falling into you there's nothing I can do, I got no defence against you, falling into you the ways you pull me through, I keep falling deeper into you

John discovered bliss when the most beautiful hand with the longest fingers came up and cradled the back of his head, pushing him to press against those lips.

A/N – well fuck me that was hard to write. 

Songs:

Nicky Romero – Toulouse

Chase and Status – Time ft. Delilah

Matrix and Futurebound - Control


	6. Brother

As I move my feet towards your body  
I can hear this beat it fills my head up  
And gets louder and louder  
It fills my head up and gets louder and louder

Florence and the Machine – Drumming Song

Break the silence  
Damn the dark  
Damn the light

Fleetwood Mac – The Chain (if you don't know this song I'm disappointed ;))

Obviously I don't own either song

 

John opened his eyes, groaning softly as a harsh light assaulted them instaneously and shutting them immediately. He clutched his head and noted his surroundings – he was in a bed, which was good. Judging by the feel of the pillow it was his own. He was still wearing his clothes from last night, which stank of cigarettes, alcohol and sweat, but he had removed his socks and shoes. He tried to think of the party last night but came up with blank space. Shit John thought, I didn't mean to drink at all! And apparently I got so bladdered I can't even remember …

He groaned again and swallowed against the rolling of his stomach. This wasn't good at all. He felt his skin itch with the feeling of being watched and looked over to the other bed in the room. His eyes opened slowly, one at a time.

Sherlock was sat on his bed, pale eyes boring into John, dressed in his usual shirt, black jeans, and posh shoes. He looked somewhat tired but bloody fine – which irritated John. He was leaning towards John eagerly. The guitarist groaned again. Sherlock gestured to his bedside table, where a tall glass of water and some paracetamol was sat waiting. As John sat up minutely he noted that there was also a bucket next to him. How thoughtful. John drank and took the medication, noting that through all of this Sherlock was watching him carefully.

"Um, you okay?" John croaked.

Sherlock's head cocked to the side, jaw clenching slightly. "You don't remember last night do you?"

John laughed softly, breath rushing out of him when his head clanged violently. "Nope, I'm afraid. Care to fill me in?"

Sherlock straightened from his concerned posture quickly. "No." He started to get up, rushing to fetch his keys, coat and wallet.

"Is- is something wrong? Sherlock? What happened?" John sat up, ignoring his clenching stomach and the millions of stick poking at the contents of his skull. Sherlock's face was completely blank as he checked the amount of money he had in his wallet.

John had just managed to stand up by the time Sherlock was at the door. As John gagged and swayed, Sherlock stopped in the doorway, his back to John. He looked back over his shoulder, looking at him from the corner of his eye. The collar of his trench coat had been flicked up so his face was obscured to John's inspection.

"Sherlock?"

The other boy just shook his head and slammed the door behind him. John collapsed to the bed, his body hating him and his mind even more so. He couldn't for the life of him remember anything after listening to Toulouse. He knew that even trying to venture outside of his room was going to be a no, so instead he quickly changed into his pyjamas and located his phone.

He texted Lestrade.

Hi mate, just wondering what happened last night? I don't have a fucking clue haha

Around a minute and some dry heaving later, he saw the message had been read and instantly three dots signalling typing appeared. With a small noise, Greg's reply appeared on his screen.

Dude, how can you not remember?! I don't think it should be me who tells you, you're better off asking Sherlock ..

I just tried, the bastard wouldn't talk to me, just ran out of the door!

You know I would John, but it really isn't my place. Don't leave your dorm until you've spoken to Sherlock yeah?

WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?

TEXT HIM JOHN. (he's being a prick to anyone and everyone -not that I blame him - so do it asap please)

John sighed and laid his phone on top of his chest. To text Sherlock or not? The dickhead probably wouldn't reply. Worth a shot any way.

Sherlock, please can you come back and explain what happened? I feel like I've been a dick..

John was surprised at the immediate reply, he hadn't even had time to go to the homescreen

I'll be back in the evening, we can talk then. – SH

Well, fuck.

It was definitely time for a nap.

Three Hours Later

John woke up for the second time that day with the feeling that someone was watching him. He nervously opened one eye, looking towards Sherlock's bed and saw a young man dressed in a three piece suit reading The Guardian sat there. John sat up slowly, now feeling suddenly wide awake.

Without his eyes leaving the paper the man commented "You're awake. Finally," He rolled his eyes. John was immediately defensive.

"Excuse me? Who are you?" He asked, wincing a little. The nausea had dissipated but the headache was most certainly still present.

The man put the paper down and stood up, walking to John he presented his hand, "Mycroft Holmes, pleased to meet you,"

"I…. Uh. John? John. John Watson," John managed to stumble out. Idiot he thought to himself.

"As you may have guessed," The man uttered the word as if the very idea offended him, "I'm Sherlock's older brother,"

"…Okay?"

"I know of the events that transpired last night and I'd just like to say to you know, that if you ever ever hurt Sherlock, I am more than capable of making it appear as if John Watson - attendee of Orchard Primary School, rugby captain at Blossom Hill Secondary School, son of Martin Watson and brother to Harriet Watson – never existed,"

John blinked.

"You have to know that you were Sherlock's first kiss and as his brother I am responsible-"

"Wait what?"

"MYCROFT! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?" Sherlock bellowed from where he'd thrown the door open.


	7. Hickey

And look, tell me you ain't did it then you ain't did it  
And if you did, then that's family business

Kanye West – Family Business

Mycroft looked unperturbed as Sherlock stomped into the room, slamming the door hard behind him – which John winced at.

"Ah brother dear, you have finally deigned to grace us with your wonderful presence," Mycroft commented.

"And Mycroft dear, I see you've put on half a stone in treats from the bakery that has recently opened near you?" Sherlock's head cocked to the side momentarily, "Enjoying the custard slices, hm?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and opened his mouth to speak before John smoothly cut in.

"Sherlock. Will you please tell me what happened last night?" He asked firmly, his blue eyes dark with concern.

Mycroft's eyebrows raised and the corner of his mouth tilted upwards in amusement. Sherlock scowled and began to undo the buttons on his coat.

There were a few moments of awkward silence, expectation hanging thick in the air, but everyone refusing to speak. Sherlock sat down at his desk and played with a pen, clicking it on and off repeatedly. John gritted his teeth and waited, gaze unwavering from Sherlock. Mycroft's eyes flicked between the two, looking positively gleeful. After an agonizing minute for Sherlock and John, Mycroft cleared his throat.

"I've been reliably informed that you ki-"

"Shut up Mycroft, you fat twit," Sherlock hissed, a pale flush rising up his cheeks.

"You're going to have to answer him," Mycroft replied happily, ignoring the dig.

Sherlock glared at him.

"Or am I going to have ask you to remove your scarf? I'm sure J-"

"Shut up shut up SHUT UP."

"Sherlock," John interjected again seriously.

"We both got inebriated, you more so than me. You-I – we…" Sherlock cleared his throat. "We kissed. That's all,"

Mycroft snorted and looked pointedly at Sherlock's scarf. But John didn't noticed and put his aching head in his hands.

"No no this cannot be happening. Fuck! Did everyone see? Of course they did otherwise Greg … Oh for fucks sake," John swore again, getting out of bed and beginning to pace.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed minutely observing John's reaction, his eyes flicked once more to Sherlock, who was looking down at his calloused hands, swallowing repeatedly.

"John, as much as I understand your inner turmoil, kindly recognise the fact that this situation does not only affect you, so stop being so insensitive." Mycroft told crisply.

Sherlock shook his head, incredulous. Blood had filled his cheeks and looked like it was going to be staying there for a long while yet. "This is so humiliating." He uttered inaudibly to himself, looking up at ceiling, wishing to be anywhere but there.

John's pacing stopped abruptly. He looked over at Sherlock with wide eyes, "And I was your first kiss? Your first?!" he asked harshly.

Sherlock stood up and walked quickly over to John, towering over him, "Do not treat me like an imbecile! Yes it was, but we were both disgustingly drunk!"

"Are you trying to say I took advantage of you?" John's temper boiled.

"John shut up of course-"

"God I wish this hadn't happened, fuck it,"

Sherlock's mouth shut with a click. He looked John up and down, "You're just scared that somehow this is going to be relayed back to your homophobic father and he's going to physically abuse you. You-"

"Sherlock," Mycroft warned. Sherlock whirled on him.

"What? You can fuck off too with your stupid eating disorder, you only came here to be witness to my humiliation!"

"You're hardly one to talk about disorders-"

"How did you know about my dad?!"

Sherlock scoffed, "Oh come on-"

For what felt like the millionth time, the door slammed opened. Sherlock threw his hands into the air with frustration and sat back down at the desk.

The door revealed Gregory Lestrade, who seemed to realise that he'd stumbled into an awkward situation immediately. He looked at everyone in turn, turning pink at the sight of Mycroft.

"Ah."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Greg, is there any way we can blag my kissing this fuckwit as not happening?" John's voice was disgusted and furious and made Sherlock's stomach clench uncomfortably.

Greg's face said it all.

"Fuck! I fucking hate this fucking school, it's a pile of shite with everyone in it being-"

"John. I have a letter from Harry, and one from Clara too." Greg interrupted and presented his fist, two envelopes held in them.

"But I sent their letters yesterday?"

Greg shrugged.

"Sherlock, how about we go and practice together, I can see how that Bach piece is going, yes?" Mycroft asked his brother softly.

"Mycroft, you know I'm not performing for you."

Mycroft raised a meaningful eyebrow. "Space, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Picking up his coat (he never removed his scarf), he went to the door, where Greg stood, seemingly transfixed on Mycroft.

"You. Move. Out of my way." No response. "NOW!" Greg shook himself visibly and moved out the way, cheeks on fire. He looked at his feet when Mycroft smiled charmingly at him.

When they left John snatched the letters from Greg's hands. The cellist kept quiet and sat tentatively on Sherlock's bed as John ripped them open, and read quickly.

John,

It's Clara. I hope everything is going really well at Apollo Academy, I googled it and holy fuck it looks amazing! Anyway, I just want to let you know Harry is safe. She's staying at mine most nights and when she's not she's at one of her other friends'. Please don't stress, you know I'll look after her – just enjoy yourself.

I'm so happy you managed to get away from it all John, if anyone deserved it, it was you. I hope you'll finally manage to be yourself without fear.

All the best, and remember not to stress!

Clara x

p.s – don't get angry at her letter, she wrote it whilst we were having pre-drinks at mine

Shaking his head he placed the letter beside him on his bed.

John!

You're swearing even more than usual (which is a lot bro, you might wanna sort that shit out). Anyways, I am FINE STOP STRESSING OUT!  
lol LOVE YOU JOHNNY AND I AM absolutely fiinneee

I was gonna arrange to visit you with Clara at some point – parently you can do that so yeah!

Call clara if u wanna speak to me!

-HARRRRRYYYY XX

(Harriet Imogene Watson)

John smiled softly and placed that letter next to him, not only had she signed it, she'd also covered it in perfume.

After wrinkling his nose and declaring he was absolutely fine, they moved on. Greg wisely decided not to mention Sherlock.

He and Greg completed their homework, and watched the new episode of their favourite show, and it was easily eleven at night before Sherlock was home.

The rain was pounding against the windows in typical British fashion, and John mused over how it so poetically suited his melancholic mood. He decided to play a few tunes on the guitar.

He was in the middle of mastering the tricky harmonics section in Tommy Emmanuel's 'Angelina' when Sherlock slowly and quietly entered the room.

His brother was absent, and Sherlock looked his usual stoic self.

John was instantly on edge. He hadn't stopped trying to recall what happened at the party, the kiss in particular, and it had bothered him all afternoon. Now Sherlock was here, his mind went blank and he didn't know what to say, how to broach the subject of their kiss. Being as how Sherlock came and plopped himself straight on John's bed, staring at him intensely, he was going to be the one to bring it up.

"John. You were my first kiss. You regret what happened. You want to move on as if the event didn't occur," John opened his mouth to protest, ashamed at how harsh it sounded when Sherlock listed it in his cold yet indifferent voice, but Sherlock spoke on smoothly. "I understand why you want to do that."

"You… you do?"

"Yes,"

"Well… thank you?"

"There's nothing to thank, John," Sherlock replied briskly, getting up quickly and going to his own bed, taking off his coat and scarf.

John's eyes widened as he saw the myriad of bruises that covered the violinist's neck. Hickeys.

"Oh my god - did I do that to you?!" He exclaimed, shocked.

Sherlock pressed his fingertips gently to his neck. "Well it's not as if I'd allow anyone else to do it,"

John felt touched and ashamed again and groaned softly, "I'm sorry Sherlock. I just … I'm not like that,"

Sherlock gave him a look.

"Well, I'm not ready to accept the possibility of being like that. It isn't natural. I can't, I'm sorry. You shouldn't have wasted your first kiss on me," John hung his head.

"Hm. Maybe," Sherlock replied indifferently, wincing as he pressed again at his tender neck.

"Shit look, I've got some arnica cream? Do you want some?"

Sherlock nodded and John fished around in his toiletry bag that was in the bathroom. He found the tube and went to Sherlock, who was now sat on his bed in his pyjamas, pressing at his neck again.

John came and sat down next to him. He unscrewed the cap on the tube, and pressed some onto his fingers, before slowly putting them up to Sherlock's neck. He could feel Sherlock's pulse as he smoothed the cream over a love bite, his cheeks flaming as he thought about how it got there.

"Jesus, what was I trying to do, eat you?" John joked. Sherlock smiled quickly, it fading as quickly as if appeared.

When Sherlock's neck was covered, John sat back with a sigh. The violinist wasn't looking at him.

"I'm sorry,"

"I know."


	8. Cream

I don't mind letting you down easy  
But just give it time  
If it don't hurt now then just wait, just wait a while

Ain't It Fun – Paramore

 

"You'd find that a lot easier if you moved your pinky finger about a centimetre two chords before that – then you'd be able to transition more easily. Even that bumbling idiot Anderson would be able to notice that," Sherlock commented from his place on his bed.

John gritted his teeth.

"And again John! A centimetre!"

John adjusted his grip

"Would you like a ruler?"

John shook his head.

"Ah, finally, you managed it right, but there's too long a gap before you start the next bar. Try again. Or don't, you seem to be getting rather angry."

"Because you're not shutting up! You're correcting me on my playing when you don't even play the instrument! Just fuck off, okay?"

Sherlock smirked. "I thought you liked feedback?"

"Constructive criticism, Sherlock."

"How was that feedback anything over than constructive?"

"Your stupid, sarky remarks!"

Sherlock grinned quietly behind his book.

John sighed. He put away his beloved guitar, fingers aching and cursing the size of his hands. Plus, he was hungry.

"We need to go to breakfast now, come on,"

"You need to go to breakfast. Goodbye,"

"We need to go to breakfast. Get up,"

"Why?" Sherlock whined. John pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Because I can't remember the last time I saw you eating anything other than apples. And we need to face up to them at some point,"

"What's the lie you've conjured up? NO wait-" Sherlock glanced at him, a full body sweep. "You're going to pretend it never happened,"

"How did you- No, never mind. We need to go now, otherwise we'll miss it,"

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Fine! Fine. Even though you know that you and I turning up will only exacerbate the rumours. Although I wonder if they can still be called rumours if they're the truth-"

"Sherlock. Now,"

Sherlock got up and began putting on his scarf and coat – thanks to the application of arnica the night before the love bites had gown down, but still warranted a scarf to keep them hidden. "I forgot you were insisting on keeping this whole ordeal a secret," Sherlock rolled his eyes and followed John out of the room.

"Are you always this intolerable?"

"You haven't seen me interact with others much have you?"

"I guess not, actually. Come to think of it, other than last night and my first day we've hardly spent any time together – you avoided me,"

"I was not avoiding you, I was adjusting to having my personal space invaded! And I've been trying to be on my best behaviour because Mycroft said that if I wasn't I wouldn't be allowed access to some rare music papers," Sherlock paused, humming thoughtfully "But now I've located them, I guess I don't have to anymore," Sherlock began to walk more briskly, apparently happy now he didn't have to sensor himself.

John rolled his eyes and quickened his pace to keep up.

When they entered the cafeteria, they were met with whispers and unsubtle looks and Sally's smug face looking at them from across the room. John winced as Sherlock rolled off countless deductions, reducing some people to tears, and ending them all with "And before you try to salvage your bruised pride, John did not kiss me, as if I'd do something like that," John tried very, very hard to not be offended.

The last person they encountered on their way towards the table where Greg sat was Sally. John wanted to leave, as he had been shown the video that Greg took of him slating the other girl – and even though he had been reliably informed that she'd deserved it – he didn't quite have the guts to stand beside Sherlock as she was insulted again. However Sherlock told him,

"It will only take a moment, John." Sherlock faced Sally's wary face pleasantly. "I'm glad to see you've invested in the appropriate cream, remember: morning and night,"

John's mouth gaped open as Sherlock dragged him away from Sally's rapidly darkening expression.

"She'd been spreading a horrendous number of rumours," Sherlock informed him.

When they sat down at the table Greg pushed two plastic tubs of pasta they'd bought for them and Sherlock passed him a fiver, telling John not to worry.

Just this once, John thought. He'd forgotten to get his wallet.

Sherlock gleefully dug into his pasta. Greg looked at him with an eyebrow quirked. Sherlock clearly felt it and looked up, and after swallowing his pasta delicately, explained:

"I haven't been able to deduce in so long that felt amazing. I thought I was going to explode if I had to suppress it any longer,"

Greg looked nervous.

"I'm going to deduce you though, other than the fact you're clearly enamoured with my brother," Sherlock smirked. Greg spluttered and coughed out excuse, but Sherlock remained unmoved.

John shook his head, looking around he saw many glares in their table's direction, "I think everyone hates us,"

Sherlock grunted and Greg sighed sufferingly.

They had nearly finished when a girl plopped herself down next to John. Greg's eyebrows raised and a smile curled his lips and Sherlock's movements halted momentarily. John went rigid. It was the girl he'd danced with. The one who declared him 'too young'. Her hair was swept up in a messy bun and her face was clear of make-up, showing all of her minute freckles and making her light brown eyes seem small. She was still beautiful though. He cleared this throat before managing to utter out a sentence to the girl smiling shyly.

"H-Hello?"

"Hi, John isn't it?" John nodded once, jerkily. "I'm Molly. Molly Hooper. I just wanted to thank you for a lovely dance," She winked at Sherlock and left.

"You reckon she did that so people would stop calling you and Sherlock poofters?" Greg asked, his eyes wide and mouth full of pasta.

Sherlock's nose wrinkled at the description and Greg apologized. John still looked star struck. "I dunno,"

It was assembly that afternoon, and their head teacher Mr Trevor droned on and on. John barely hid his yawns behind his hand, knowing that Greg was having the same problem beside him. They had no idea where Sherlock was.

Fortunately, all was revealed when Trevor finished his speech about the upcoming spring ceremony and presented Sherlock performing the piece he'd done last year, something he hadn't deigned to tell Greg or John about. It wasn't just Sherlock up there, with Miss Adler on piano and some twenty year old on the cello.

But immediately, John could see there was something up with Sherlock. He was behaving differently, maybe it was because he was performing but John could tell it was something more than that. He looked … sluggish.

The piece was performed flawlessly, perfectly and John was breathless by the end of it – having never been given the pleasure of seeing Sherlock perform before. The melody's had flowed with beautiful intensities and Sherlock had executed each flick of his bow expertly.

And it was when Sherlock bowed right at the end, that John realised what was wrong – why his beautiful, insane and yet overwhelmingly incredible at playing that instrument flat mate seemed off – he was high.


End file.
